Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

The last week has been a blur ever since that lunch with Emiliya where we really connected. Maxim works during the day and I hang out with whichever sister is around—which is usually both of them. We talk about our lives, about our families, watch TV and movies, play games, and even go shopping. Maxim complains about my spending, but he does it with a smile. I think he enjoys spoiling me a little bit. I’m not used to being treated so well, and I feel guilty whenever I buy something nice—so I make sure to thank him the best way I know how: on my hands and knees, my legs spread wide.

Most important of all though, I have friends—real friends. And it’s the best feeling in the world.

But at night, when Maxim comes home, I’m all his. From the moment he steps foot in the Kremlin until he leaves the next morning, he takes me, and he keeps me. He gives me all the pleasure—and all the punishments—I can possibly handle. It’s a whirlwind of lust and intensity, and after he fucks me into submission and leaves me a panting, drooling, satisfied mess, we cuddle under the covers and talk about the business.

He listens. I tell him everything I know, all the details, sparing nothing. We go over it all again and again, sometimes brainstorming ways to improve on my papa’s setup, and sometimes wondering aloud if it’s even worth the effort.

I get comfortable. It’s strange, but the anger slowly fades, and it’s replaced by something better.

A wholeness. Like I’ve found where I want to be.

Galina collapses onto one of the couches and stretches her back with a yawn. “You two suck. It’s not even a challenge anymore.”

“Do you want to play?” I ask Emiliya. “Since apparently we’re both so bad.”

“Only if you promise not to strut around like my idiot sister if you win.”

“I make no such promises.”

Emiliya laughs as she grabs the paddle. I pick the puck up from the bottom shelf and place it on the air table. It floats slowly over the little airholes.

Galina pokes her head up over the back of the couch. “It’s like watching toddlers play soccer. Cute, but so awful.”

“You’re a monster,” Emiliya says.

I laugh and slap the puck forward. Emiliya slams it back as the door opens and Maxim steps into the room. I’m distracted and the puck slips past my defenses.

“Goal!” Emiliya throws her hands in the air. “I am a beautiful, talented, powerful goddess!”

“What the hell did I just walk into?” Maxim asks, smiling at his sister.

Emiliya points at him. “You are not welcome, manfolk.”

I walk over and kiss Maxim on the cheek. “Ignore her. Why are you home so early?”

His smile fades. “I have a surprise for you.”

“It doesn’t look like a good one.”

“I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

I chew on my lip. “All right, show me.”

“Come this way.”

“Don’t keep her long!” Emiliya calls out as we leave.

I follow Maxim into the hall. I can tell he’s worried about something by the way he holds his shoulders. When did I learn his body language that well? He takes me to the bottom floor, and we pause at the edge of the spiral staircase.

“What are we doing down here?” I ask, frowning. The bottom floor is for guests and parties. I basically never go there, except to climb the steps after getting off the elevator.

He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “Your brother’s here.”

I take a step back and almost stumble over the bottom step. He catches my waist and holds me steady. I put my hands on his chest and shake my head rapidly.

“What? Why? Now? Here? Where?”

“He’s in the sitting room, and relax. It’s not Enzo.”

Relief floods me. The last person I want to see is Enzo—except for maybe my father.

“Who then?”

“Santo. Your youngest brother, I believe.”

A strange excitement kindles in my gut. I’ve missed my other brothers so much. I haven’t gotten to talk to them—I’ve been too afraid to reach out, like if I poke the hornet’s nest, I’ll get stung.

“Take me to him.”

Maxim nods and leads the way. He shows me to a pair of French doors. Two big, burly bratva soldiers stand outside in suits with little earpieces looking like secret service agents. It’s almost comical if they weren’t so scary. I step past them and into a large, cozy sitting room with couches, a massive painting of some frozen arctic wasteland—probably Siberia, the Novalov homeland or whatever—and my brother Santo sitting in front of a tea set looking like he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than have to drink any.

“Shout if you need me,” Maxim says quietly and disappears, shutting the doors behind him.

Santo jumps up. He looks surprised, but a massive grin spreads across his face. I love that smile—his loose, easy nature always made my life a little bit better. I smile, a nervous energy flooding into my hands and feet.